


Comfort and Joy

by RileyC



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Christmas, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Mystery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-15
Updated: 2010-06-15
Packaged: 2017-10-10 03:31:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/94998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RileyC/pseuds/RileyC
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A case set early in the partnership.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Comfort and Joy

“Watson,” Holmes' hand slipped into mine, his lips nearly against my ear as he whispered, “keep absolutely still.”

Yes, well, I hadn't planned on dancing a jig, although that might have brought some warmth back into my frozen limbs.

This Christmas season of 1881 had settled upon London with a wintry vengeance, and rather than enjoying the warmth and creature comforts of Baker Street, I was crouched in the darkness outside a certain residence with Sherlock Holmes. It was some months now since Holmes and I had taken up lodgings together, and since assisting him in the matter of Jefferson Hope it had been my pleasure to accompany him on several other cases. This present instance was proving to be the inevitable exception to the rule, however.

Earlier this evening I had, in fact, been engaged in the quite pleasurable exercise of assembling the final chapters of the Hope case. The pleasure was, it must be admitted, strained at times as Sherlock Holmes persisted in prowling restlessly about our sitting room, even going so far as to stand at my shoulder and attempt to meddle in my writing.

“A Tangled Skein?” he had asked, having taken note of the title I'd chosen.

“Well, what of it?” I said, turning in my chair to regard him. “You called it that yourself.”

“Did I?” Hands buried in the pockets of his grey dressing gown, he lifted his lean shoulders in a shrug. “It's rather commonplace, though, don't you think?”

“What alternative have you to offer?”

His reply was another shrug. “I'm sure I leave it in your capable hands,” he said, pacing away to the windows to gaze out at a Baker Street enveloped in snow.

I returned to my writing, only to sense him once more at my shoulder. “Holmes, really--“

“Ormond Sacker?” he said, ignoring my outburst.

“What?”

“Who the devil is Ormond Sacker?”

Flushing a bit self-consciously, I said, “I am. That is, I thought I should adopt a sort of nom-de-plume.”

Appearing genuinely puzzled, he said, “Whatever for?” Blatantly examining other pages, he added, “You've changed the names of no one else.”

I took the pages back from him before he could find a half dozen others details to critique. “Have you nothing better to do, Holmes?”

“As it happens, Watson,” he flung himself upon the sofa, something decidedly petulant in his manner, “no, I do not.”

In fact, it had been some weeks since any problem of note had come his way, and then it had merely been a matter of setting Lestrade or Gregson upon the right course after they had taken several wrong turns. One could hardly wish for a virulent outbreak of criminal activity to descend upon the metropolis, and yet I had taken to perusing the papers with an eye to spotting something that might challenge my friend. Having discovered his ultimate recourse when _ennui _threatened, my desire to see him distracted with some more constructive challenge was running rather high.

I tried not to let my gaze stray to his desk, to the drawer where I knew he kept his red morocco case and needle, but must have betrayed myself in some manner.

“I'm not so far gone as that, Watson,” he said, irritation in his tone, although whether at my disapproval of his habit or with the monotonous status quo, I could not say.

He resumed pacing; I attempted to resume writing but had lost what little thread of inspiration had been mine. Thus, the sudden knock at the door that, half an hour earlier would have been an unwelcome interruption, now came at a most opportune moment. Even if it was merely Mrs. Hudson come to inquire if we would prefer a goose or a turkey for Christmas dinner, it would at least provide a distraction.

As it happened, it was a commissionaire, announcing, “Message for Mr. Sherlock Holmes.” He handed the envelope directly to Holmes. “I'm to wait for a reply, sir.”

Nodding absently, Holmes tore the envelope open, withdrawing a single sheet of paper which he read as he paced over to the window once more. Watching him, it was as though I saw a match ignite; that quickly, his boredom melted away, an intensity taking him over that was not unlike the energy exhibited by a foxhound when it's caught the scent it was searching for.

When he went to his desk, it was to withdraw a sheet of paper upon which he hastily wrote a reply. Placing it into an envelope and sealing it, he handed it to the commissionaire, saying, “Please take this directly to,” here he hesitated briefly, “M.”

“Very good, sir,” said the commissionaire with a curious alacrity, and nearly a sense of deference.

That Holmes was held in some esteem at Scotland Yard, however much they might publicly deny it, I was in no doubt. This incident, however, had some more indefinable quality, one that I felt encompassed more than Holmes.

Unable to curb my curiosity, as the commissionaire left, I asked, “May I ask who, or what, M is?”

Somewhat brusque, Holmes said, “It would be better if you didn't.” Throwing off his dressing gown, he started for him room, pausing in the doorway to look back at me, a hint of contrition in his manner now. “Watson, I do beg your pardon. It's just…” Uncharacteristically at a loss for words, he gave his head a minute shake, as though internally wrestling with something. “This isn't the time, let us say that.”

“Very well. You are certainly entitled to your privacy, Holmes.” I was somewhat bruised by his rebuff, and yet hardly in a position to demand a more full disclosure.

“You're too accommodating, Watson.” He breathed a soft sigh, giving me a look that approached the apologetic. “Now I feel quite the bully, asking if you would be so good as to accompany me this evening.”

I cast a wary look at the windows, at the snow, anticipating the arctic chill. “This evening?”

“Time, so I am informed, is of the essence.”

Yes, of course it would be. “I shall be glad to come with you, Holmes.”

“If you're sure?” he asked, peering at me closely, no doubt well able to perceive the sense of foreboding that manifested at the thought of going out on such a night.

“Quite certain,” I said. “Shall I need my revolver?”

Thoughtful, he shook his head after a moment. “I think not. My tool-kit should suffice,” he said, rather more mysteriously than seemed warranted. Allowing me no opportunity to inquire further, he closed his door.

~*~

A cab was waiting for us in the bitterly cold street, the driver getting underway without one word of instruction as soon as Holmes and I had climbed aboard. Was the cab hired by this mysterious M? Could the driver be in this individual's employ as well? I was in possession of a great many questions, and somewhat inclined to suspect Holmes would take his time providing answers.

In that, at least, I was proved wrong, for as we were borne ever further from Baker Street, Holmes chose to turn forthcoming.

“We are asked, Watson,” he said as we jolted through the icy, snowbound streets, scarcely any other souls stirring on such a night as this, “to carry out a rather delicate task on the behalf of certain agents of the government.”

Huddled in my corner of the cab and feeling the biting chill penetrating to my very bones, I threw him a sharp look. “You might have said so before.”

“There are,” again he paused uncertainly, “certain aspects of what we are embarked upon that, I feared, you would find objectionable.”

What that could be, at this point, I was not prepared to contemplate. Surely by now he knew there was little, indeed, that he could ask of me that I would not gladly attempt. “And that would be…?”

“We are to retrieve certain incriminating papers from a private residence, with the occupants of the house none the wiser.”

“Good lord…”

“Watson--“

“And if we're apprehended?”

“We will not be apprehended.”

“All very well for you to say.” Visions of public disgrace danced before my eyes, and for a moment I was even tempted to curse good old Stamford for ever having introduced me to Sherlock Holmes.

“Watson, I assure you: we will not face the prospect of Lestrade and Gregson hauling us away in irons,” he said, an earnest fervor in his manner that felt most compelling. He leaned closer to me, searching my face. “Will you trust me?”

“Well of course I trust you, Holmes,” I said, a bit gruff for having contemplated, however briefly, the treacherous wish to have never known him.

Expression a bit wry, understanding all too well, he said, “To drag you into some mad escapade?”

“Well, that too,” I said, smiling now. I let out a deep breath, watched it turn to vapor on the icy air. “It's a noble cause?”

“I believe so, yes.”

“Very well.” I gave a firm nod. “I am at your disposal, Holmes.”

A quick smile flashed across his gaunt features and he patted my knee. “Good man.”

~*~

That had, however, been some while ago, and now, crouched amidst the barren gardens of a vast estate, half-frozen and anxious for this adventure to be over, my sense of good will had begun to wane a bit.

We had penetrated the grounds of Lord Westbrook's estate in Hampstead by the expedient means of clambering over the wall while the cab waited, the driver observing our actions with an indifferent eye. When I expressed some concern about the footprints we were leaving in the snow, Holmes assured me, modestly, even he would have some trouble distinguishing our prints from the multitude of others that had churned up the snow; the likes of Lestrade and Gregson would certainly be none the wiser.

Entry to the house itself had appeared a formidable obstacle - until Holmes produced a set of lock picks which he proceeded to wield with an alarming confidence and dexterity. Once inside, we had proceeded as if following a map drawn with exceptional precision, straight to a private study where, once Holmes had lit the pocket lantern he produced, a safe was revealed behind a painting by Caravaggio, _The Sacrifice of Isaac,_ that caught Holmes' speculative eye.

“Is it a forgery?” I whispered, wondering at his intent examination of the painting.

“A copy, certainly,” he said, voice a barely audible murmur. “No, no,” he shook his head and cast me a rueful look, “it's the subject matter, Watson. Let us say, a certain degree of light is cast.” He shook his head again, this time to postpone further inquiries, intent upon his task: cracking that very safe.

In this, too, he exhibited so uncanny an ability that I experienced a profound gratitude that he operated he employed his talents for the greater good. Had he chosen a different path, it was eminently clear he would have provided an exceptionally formidable quarry for Scotland Yard.

“You're rather too adept at that, Holmes,” I whispered as he opened the safe's door and began rummaging within.

“All on the side of the angels, my dear Watson, I do assure you. Here,” he thrust a handful of documents at me, “be a good fellow and sort through these. We're looking for a bundle of four letters, the envelopes bearing no other address than: To Lord Westbrook. And they will be tied together with a blue ribbon.”

“How on earth can you know--“

“Shh. Explanations will come; get to work.”

Thus admonished, I set about my task. I felt glad of my friend's assurance that we were embarked upon a noble cause, for it must be confessed that rummaging through a stranger's private papers was not an agreeable sensation.

“I say, Holmes, could this be it?” I asked, handing him the letters I'd found.

He took them from me, bending close to the lantern for a better look. “Indeed, I believe they are. Well done, Watson.”

Even in such disreputable circumstances, I welcomed his compliment. “My pleasure, Holmes. Are we done, then?”

To my relief, he replied that we were, and we were preparing to take our leave, when misfortune struck. As he turned away from the safe, its door closed once more and the painting back in place, Holmes caught his toe on the rug, stumbled for a step, and in attempting to right himself - even as I shot out an arm to steady him - knocked his hand against a delicate porcelain bowl that sat on a table and sent it crashing to the floor. The sound of its breaking echoed like a cannon shot in the silence, and we stared at each other in shock.

“Holmes,” footsteps were pounding down the stairs, voices were shouting, the tension of the moment heightening and amplifying everything out of proportion, “what do we do?”

He cast a look at the door, through which the horde of outraged occupants were about to burst, and over at the tall windows, the only other possible means of exit. Seizing my arm, Holmes dragged me along. “We run, Watson.”

“Are you mad?” I asked, balking at the prospect of crashing through the window.

“Have you a better alternative?”

I glanced back at the door, could hear its knob being turned even then. “I do not.”

“Then,” he grasped my hand, “let us be off.”

We jumped, arms raised to guard our faces from the shattering glass, tumbling out onto the frozen ground, the thorns of dormant rosebushes tearing at our clothes and exposed flesh. Behind us, lights were coming on, people were rushing to the broken window, shouting at us in fury as we sprang to our feet and ran, stumbling, falling in the snow, sliding on the treacherously icy ground.

Stopped to draw breath, we crouched among the dead hydrangeas, listening for sounds of pursuit - exchanging a look of concern as we heard the unmistakable, vigorous barking of a pack of dogs.

“It's thirty yards to the wall, Watson,” Holmes whispered. “Can you make that?”

“Of course I can.”

He patted my shoulder. “This way, we haven't much time.”

Indeed not; I could hear the dogs entirely too close by.

“There, you see it?” Holmes was pointing, and I nodded, spotting the brick wall we had previously conquered.

The dogs were nearly at our heels, men's voices right behind them. The snow tripped us, hindered our progress, but it slowed them as well. Reaching the wall at last, I sagged against it, breathing hard, as Holmes scrambled up it.

“Watson!” He leaned down, extending his hand. “Hurry, there's not a moment to waste!”

Clutching his hand, adding my strength to his, I clambered up the wall to join him. Sliding down the other side was, in contrast, a task of no great effort at all, and incentive to be quick about was disturbingly nearby: the dogs, having reached the wall, could be heard barking, whining urgently, leaping against it and scraping the brick with their claws as their masters called out in anger, their curses echoing in the chill air.

“Let us not linger,” Holmes said, appearing exhilarated by the exercise. “There's our cab,” his long arm extended once more, pointing up the lane where the hansom waited. It was little more than a dark shape, its position betrayed by the great gusts of breath from the horse that showed as vapor in the cold air, but I believe I had never been more glad to glimpse a hansom in all my life.

“I don't mind telling you, Holmes,” I said as we made our way toward it, as rapidly as possible given the ice and snow, “I shall be most reluctant to venture from Baker Street again anytime soon.”

He patted my back. “Fear not, friend Watson, it will take a summons from Her Majesty herself to make me willingly leave our rooms as well. There's just one more--Watson!”

Hearing the alarm in his voice, I turned, which I suppose saved me from greater injury, just as a gunshot, fired from atop the wall, exploded in the night. I ducked; I slipped on the hazardous ice; I fell, striking my head as the horse screamed in fright and bolted toward us, the driver struggling for control. I registered Holmes frantically shouting my name, felt his hands on me, dragging me along the frozen ground, felt myself slipping, tumbling … and then nothing more at all.

~*~

The first time I awoke, it was to the sensation of being jolted roughly along, everything dark and quiet. Some sound of pain must have escaped me, for I felt a blanket pulled more securely around me, heard Holmes murmuring some reassurance that all would be well.

I drifted off again, awakening once more to find we were back in the city, somewhere along Pall Mall, in fact. Discovering myself alone, I pushed myself up straighter, the cold shocking me further awake as I looked about for some sign of Holmes. The street was deserted, of course, all sensible people being safe and warm in their beds at what was surely an ungodly hour. Even the driver had vanished, leaving me with the horse as my only companion.

As I waited, I took stock of myself. My thoughts were lucid; my last conscious memories quite clear. It was true my head ached, but I could detect no signs of brain contusion - my vision wasn't blurred, nor was I experiencing any dizziness or nausea. Reaching up to explore, my fingers discovered an impressive lump on the back of my head, slightly sticky with blood. Head injuries always bled considerably, so that was no true indication of anything.

Beyond that, an assortment of aches and stings were drawing my attention, but I judged none were incapacitating, and on the whole was prepared to declare my prognosis was an excellent one.

My confidence on that point wavered somewhat as I braced a hand against the side of the cab and attempted to climb down. Feeling suddenly dizzy, I sat back carefully, waiting as it passed. Perhaps it would be wise to stay where I was, and wait for Holmes to reappear.

A movement in a doorway caught my eye, and feeling better, I leaned forward to get a better look. Two men were coming out of what I took for a residential building. The tall, lean figure I instantly knew to be Sherlock Holmes, but the other, bulkier outline was not familiar. They looked toward me, the light catching my friend's features while his companion remained in shadow. A hurried conversation followed, then the other man went back inside while Holmes hurried along the street toward me.

“Watson,” climbing into the cab, Holmes examined my face with the same intensity he brought to his scrutiny of a clue, “how are you?”

“I am quite well, Holmes, I assure you.”

“I think you should go to a hospital to make certain of that.”

“Holmes, in this field, at least, I believe my knowledge is superior, and I do not require anything more than hot water and my own medical bag.”

He didn't look pleased with this, and while I felt warmed by his concern, I was prepared to be insistent on the matter. “I bow to your experience - at the moment,” Holmes said. “Should you take a turn for the worse, however, I shall exercise my own judgment.”

“Should that occur, Holmes, I will likely be in no condition to protest.” Eager to change the subject, I asked, “Is our mission completed, then?”

“It is,” he said, leaning out of the cab to wave at another doorway, summoning the driver and instructing him to take us back to Baker Street.

“Satisfactorily?” I asked as we got underway.

“To our client's satisfaction, yes,” Holmes said, a wry note to his voice that aroused my curiosity. “I cannot speak for the other parties involved.”

Resting in my corner of the cab, aches and pains becoming more pronounced with every jolt of the wheels over the icy streets, I wondered again about that painting that had caught Holmes' eye. “Abraham and Isaac,” I murmured, rubbing the back of my head.

Holmes nodded. “Abraham and Isaac. The father prepared to sacrifice his beloved son out of a sense of honor bound duty.” He glanced at me in the light of a passing street lamp. “Did you ever wonder how they dealt with each other in the aftermath?”

“I suppose the son understood the father's burden of responsibility.”

“Hmm, but what if Isaac didn't? What is Isaac were a selfish wretch?” Holmes breathed out a sigh, studying me again. “My dear fellow, you truly do look unwell.”

“I'm half-frozen, Holmes. I shall we quite well once we've reached Baker Street.” In truth, I believe I sought to reassure myself as much as Holmes.

~*~

I stumbled and nearly fell again, getting out of the cab. Holmes caught hold of me in time, steadying me on my feet and guiding me up the steps to the front door. To my surprise, Mrs. Hudson opened the door, and I wondered if she had been waiting up all this time, if Holmes had sent word ahead to be prepared, for she evinced no shock at our somewhat bedraggled state. Her expressions of concern at my battered condition warmed me even before I found myself seated before the fire with the glass of brandy Holmes placed in my hand.

“I could summon someone, the estimable Stamford, perhaps?” Holmes said, throwing off his greatcoat, laying it and my own over the back of the sofa.

“For the last time, Holmes, I am quite able to look after myself.” Perhaps I spoke more testily than was called for, but his concern for me, while flattering, was causing me some alarm. “Do I truly look that dreadful, Holmes?”

Fetching a hand mirror from his desk, he proffered it to me. “Observe for yourself, Doctor.”

I observed, turning my head this way and that to take note of assorted scratches and an impressive bruise staining my forehead. “Yes, well, you look fairly disreputable yourself, Holmes,” I said. “And what the devil happened to my hat?”

~*~

Hot water had arrived, Holmes had fetched my medical bag from my room, Mrs. Hudson had gone off to bed, and I was tending to my injuries - with considerable help from Holmes.

“You have a sizeable lump here,” he said, standing behind me and examining where I'd struck my head. He probed it with his fingers, attempting to be careful, and stopping quickly when a sound of pain escaped me. “My dear Watson-“

“It's all right, Holmes,” I said, with great practicality. “Can't be helped. Is the skin badly broken?”

“No, there's been just a little bleeding.”

Certain by now there was no greater internal injury, I instructed him to wash the area and watched as he rolled up his shirtsleeves, one sinewy forearm somewhat marred by marks of past cocaine injections. Under the circumstances, it would be churlish indeed to lecture him for that habit. Instead I focused on him wetting the red bar of carbolic soap, its leathery scent a pleasant, nostalgic aroma as he worked it into a lather and, using a cloth, began carefully cleaning the wound.

“Now to the rest?” he asked, after discarding the first basin of water and filling it again.

Blood had soaked through the elbow of my jacket. Dry by now, I felt some trepidation at the prospect of peeling jacket and shirt away, but as there was no other means of examining the injury - a rather bad scrape, I suspected - I set about the task, glad of Holmes' help once more. At least, until I heard his sharp intake of breath as my shirt came away from my shoulder, the one that had been torn through by a Jezail bullet.

Aside from the dull ache that had become a familiar accompaniment by now, I hardly thought about the wound, of the somewhat dramatic scar its passing had left.

“Good lord…”

“It's nothing, Holmes. I assure you.”

“I hadn't quite realized how badly you had been injured.”

“And yet,” I said, hoping to dispel his sudden bleak dismay, intending to make light of it, “you deduced something of the sort upon our first meeting.”

“In a clinical manner,” he said, clearly troubled by the memory. “I should not have left it that, Watson.”

“Holmes, truly, there is no need to censure yourself. I am hardly aware of it anymore.”

He gave me a wounded, questioning look that said he was not persuaded as to the truth of that declaration. “You've never said anything, never raised a word in protest,” he said as though marveling at it and pained by it at too. “Not even when I insist on forcing you out on a night such as this.”

Disturbed to see him to stricken, I hastened to assure him. “Holmes, truly, you are making far too much of it. Do not reproach yourself. You have me compelled me in no way, my dear fellow. It has been my pleasure and my privilege to accompany you on these adventures - tonight has been no exception. I look forward to many more such experiences.”

That he could be so affected did not astonish me. No one could understand the workings of the human heart, a knowledge he demonstrated with every case, and yet be a stranger to those same sensations. That he would let me see it, however, if only for a fleeting moment, touched me deeply.

He nodded quickly, chin firming once more, gray eyes growing sharp again as he set about things with his customary briskness. “Quite right, do forgive me,” he said. “Let us get you patched up then.”

Action suited to word, my arm was soon cleaned and bandaged, and before very much longer I was alone in my room, Holmes wishing me a good night.

I did long for my bed, and yet as I began to undress, the melancholy strains coaxed from his violin that drifted up to me, some poignant composition of his own, I thought, caused me to postpone that for a time. Putting on a clean shirt, and slipping into my dressing gown, I returned to the sitting room.

“Watson?” Violin resting on his knee, Holmes gave me a searching look. “Is something wrong?”

I shook my head, settling on the sofa. “I believe I should enjoy some company just now.”

Expression a bit rueful, he said, “Even mine?”

“Particularly yours,” I said. “It's Christmas Day, Holmes. Had you noticed?”

“I don't believe I had. Compliments of the season.”

I smiled. “And to you.” Looking across at him, I asked, “So, Lord Westbrook ? Am I to ever know the full story?”

“I'm not entirely certain I know it all myself. My,” a brief hesitation, once more piquing my curiosity as to the identity of the person, “client was rather circumspect. He often is,” he added, brow furrowed as if with a pang of irritation. “You know that Lord Westbrook is a member of the Cabinet?”

“Yes, Home Secretary, in fact.”

“Just so. It seems his youngest son had become entangled with a blackmailer, aiding him, in fact, as the son was in a position to be privy to a great many confidential matters. Finding himself particularly pressed for funds, the son threatened to go to Scotland Yard and confess his part in these extortions, thereby bringing disgrace upon his father and putting his political career in jeopardy.”

I stared across at Holmes, appalled, thinking once more of that depiction of Abraham about to sacrifice his son. “He was blackmailing his own father?”

“Yes. Rather brazenly, in fact, and the father was allowing it. Not, so I am told, out of fear of scandal, but because he loves the boy.”

“Your client was not, however, Lord Westbrook,” I said, feeling my way through still-murky waters.

“No, he was not. Lord Westbrook, in fact, knows nothing of this night's events, except that he was burgled. Fear that the missing letters - his son's, shall we say, requests for money, including his threats to confess all his sins - will have fallen into the wrong hands will provoke him to take action at last. Or so my client believes.”

“You're skeptical, yourself?”

“I believe,” Holmes spoken slowly, “that, having protected his son thus far, Lord Westbrook is unlikely to throw him to the wolves now.” His dark brows drawn together, expression rather comically annoyed, as though something pinched at him, he added, “I am informed my understanding of the situation lacks a certain shrewd insight, however.”

“That strikes me as unlikely,” I said in protest, rather provoked at this nameless person who could so cavalierly slight my friend's abilities.

“Nevertheless, the matter is in this individual's hands now, and mine are washed of it.”

“Well, if you ask me, it sounds as if your client is simply employing his own brand of coercion now.”

“On that, my dear Watson, we are indeed of one mind. Now,” he picked up his violin and bow once more, “do make yourself comfortable, and let us forget this particular tangled web.”

Agreeable to that, I rested my bruised head on a pillow and allowed my eyes to drift shut as he resumed his bowing, the wistful strains of _God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen_ drifting through the room and sending me off to sleep.

~the end~

 

**Author's Note:**

> If you don't get the "Ormond Sacker" reference, that comes courtesy of Vincent Starrett's The Private Life of Sherlock Holmes, a classic look at Sherlockiana (not to be confused with the Billy Wilder movie of the same name), wherein one of the tidbits revealed is that our good doctor camethisclose to being named Ormond Sacker. Thank goodness Conan Doyle came to his senses in time! :)


End file.
